Lothaire's face was impassive as he answered, "Not yet, my king." No matter how hard he tried to teleport, he could never succeed. Ivana had told him that tracing was a talent that came late to the Daci-they had limited need for it in their closed kingdom. She considered Lothaire's inability yet another sign that he took after her more than after a mere Horde vampire.
Stefanovich seized Lothaire's thin arm, squeezing. "Too frail, I see."
Lothaire was desperate to grow bigger, to be as formidable as his warrior father, if for no reason other than to protect his mother. Not that Princess Ivana needed another's protection.
"By all the gods, you shame me, boy. I should have wrung your runtling neck at birth."
Lothaire heard these criticisms routinely, was used to them.
His mother, however, was not.
With a shriek, Ivana snatched up a carafe of blood, hurling it at Stefanovich. It shattered a pane of black glass just behind him, unleashing a ray of muted light.
The courtiers hissed, scattering throughout the chamber. The beam seared inches from Stefanovich's unmoving elbow before a day servant scurried to stuff the hole with a wadded cloth.
"My son is perfect." Ivana bared her fangs, her blue irises gone black with emotion. "Other than the fact that he bears your stamp upon his face. Luckily, he inherited his keen mind from my royal lineage. He's full of cunning, a mark of the Daci!"
Stefanovich too bared his razor-sharp fangs, his eyes blazing even redder. "You tempt my wrath, woman!"
"As you tempt mine." Ivana never backed down before him. Whenever Stefanovich struck her, she struck him back twice.
Ivana had told Lothaire that the Daci were coldly logical, ruled by reason. Apparently, Ivana the Bold was the exception.
Fierce as the blizzard raging outside, she even goaded Stefanovich to get his attention, lashing him with her barbed tongue whenever he stared off into the night. She had once admitted to Lothaire that his father dreamed of finding the vampire female who would eventually be his-Stefanovich's Bride, the one who would make his heart beat for eternity.
The lawful queen who would bear his true heirs.
Ivana smoothed her braids once more, so clearly struggling with her temper. "You mock your son at your own peril, Stefanovich."
"Son? I don't claim him as such. That boy will never compare to my true successor!" Another gulp from his tankard. "Of that I am certain."
"I am as well. Lothaire will be superior to any other male in all ways! He's a Dacian!"
Lothaire watched this exchange with deepening unease, recalling the warning his uncle Fyodor had once given Ivana: "Even Stefanovich can grow jealous of your knowledge and strength. You must bend, ere his love for you turns to hate."
Lothaire knew his uncle's warning had come true.
For Stefanovich looked murderous. "You believe your kind so much better than mine-"
A female drunkenly staggered into the room from Stefanovich's private chamber. A mortal female.
Lothaire's jaw slackened, and Ivana pressed the back of her hand over her mouth.
The woman was dressed as a queen, her garments as rich as Ivana's own. She was the one who'd dined at the king's right hand?
"A human?" Ivana's shock quickly turned to ire. "You dare bring one of those diseased animals into my home! Near my only offspring?" She strode forward to shove Lothaire behind her.
Though adult vampires were immortal, Lothaire was still vulnerable to illness.
"The human is Olya, my new mistress."
"Mistress!" Ivana cried. "More like a pet. Her kind live in dirt hovels, sleeping amongst their livestock!"
Stefanovich waved for the woman, and she coyly meandered over to him. "Ah, but she tastes of wine and honey." He turned to his brother. "Does she not, Fyodor?"
Fyodor flashed a guilty look at Ivana.
Pulling his pet into his lap, Stefanovich sneered, "You should sample her, Ivana." He bared the mortal's pale arm.